


Mona Lisa and the Accountant Angel

by alexwestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, F/M, Short & Sweet, So i didnt do it, Writing dialogue is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexwestiel/pseuds/alexwestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has always been interested by his neighbor, Meg. In turn, Meg has always been interested by Castiel. But its not going to go anywhere, but dreaming isn't illegal, is it?<br/>((Ha-ha I'm so bad at summaries yay))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stars & Freckles & Wishful Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> As this is my first work on ao3 (or the internet for that matter!) I thought I would give in and submit this, a love story of sorts.  
> I am stupidly proud of this for some reason.  
> Enjoy or don't, I don't mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is a dreamer by definition. Recently, his next door neighbour has been the focus of his musings.

Castiel Novak has always been fascinated by but wary of his neighbour, Meg Masters.  
Maybe it's the piercings that make her face 'look like a pincushion' (according to Jimmy, his brother). Or perhaps it's the endless leather she encompasses herself in. It could be the friends she has, who turn up at her doorstep, wielding knives, instruments and muscular arms soaked in ink that refuses to be erased. Possibly, its her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Crowley, who despite having a refined british accent and a smirk to make people swoon at his feet, has more than enough bottled up rage at the world to kill.  
But Castiel doesn't trouble himself with her and keeps his distance. She doesn't need him. He's just the odd guy next door, who works in the library and lives with his overbearing brother.  
He thinks of her often, however. Because, despite being a little frightening, she is beautiful. It's not traditional beauty, but it is beauty. From her long, deep brown hair (with its unruly shock of bright purple at the front), through the minefield of freckles that spray like paint from a brush across her pale cheeks, along her body's gentle curves, to her feet, often clad in heavy leather boots with more straps than Castiel would like to count.  
Alas, as Castiel goes about his life; cycling to and from work everyday; making dinner for himself and Jimmy and settling down to bed after pretending to pray to a god who he doesn't believe in; she doesn't seem to give him a second look.  
No matter how much they scare him, he is certain he will always prefer her crowd to his brother's. For they, in all their false holiness, speak of loving all and yet they spew hatred. Raphael is the worst. Castiel has his suspicions he gave Meg a beating, because she shies away when he is around. So Castiel glares at Raphael especially hard. To them, everything is somebody else's fault, whether it be other races or sexualities, or just Castiel. He gets a lot of the blame for any damage sustained in the house, even though it is rarely him. But, being the quiet, unassuming brother, he barely ever fights back. He just nods silently and ducks out of the room, reduced to a little child again under their gaze.  
He often wishes to have Meg's courage. She is totally unapologetic for who she is, but manages to be very polite and civil. She smiles at people even if they shy away from her and stare, whispering. She campaigns for equality for all, and kisses whoever she wants to. She comes home some nights with bloodied knuckles and stained clothes. Sometimes, she'll have her friends the Winchesters over and they'll play their loud music in the back garden, however much Jimmy complains. She sometimes talks to Castiel over the fence, in the heat of summer (she calls him Clarence, and laughs at all his silly little jokes) and its almost as if they're friends.  
Speaking of friends, Castiel has precious few. Not out of him being too different or quiet, he's just very picky. If he had to choose (which he doesn't), he would say that Gabriel was his best friend. Mainly because he makes the ordinary throb of life a little more bearable, through his scathing comments about books and music and people and everything.  
Sometimes, when its really dark and the stars are winking down through the atmosphere's veil, Castiel thinks he loves Meg Masters. And for a moment, he's certain, and that moment is glorious, and he wishes it would just last a little longer (long enough for him to make a move) but then it all crashes down when he realises that he has never loved someone before, and it probably isn't love he is feeling for her.  
She invites him to see her play her music in smoky bars and shady nightclubs, but every time he politely declines, because they are usually on a Thursday night, and Castiel goes to book club on a Thursday night. And even though his every fibre of being aches to go, he doesn't, electing instead to stay in the library for an extra 125 minutes, discussing books. However, it does not go unnoticed that he doesn't seem as interested on those nights.  
She waves to him through her window in during the night, and they share notes written in permanent marker on paper, keeping a conversation up for hours. And sometimes Castiel wishes he could write 'I love you' on the paper, and for it not to be strange. Sometimes he even wishes she would write it back, followed by a smiley face or a little doodle.  
Crowley shouts alot and ruins their time together. He smokes cigarettes out of the note window, and leaves bottles by the fence. He removes the magic from the whole area, and leaves in its place a bad smell of smoke and cheap cologne. Castiel isn't overly fond of the man, but tolerates him because Meg loves him.  
Castiel curses his sheltered childhood for preventing him from rebelling a little. Thanks to his family, he is stuck looking both ways at crossings and wearing kneepads to cycle a few miles. He has a somewhat love-hate relationship with this part of himself. It irritates him greatly that he still treats himself as a child, but he knows he would already be underground if he didn't.  
She wears these contact lenses sometimes, they're jet black and cover her whole eye. She does it to creep Jimmy out, and it works. Castiel thinks it makes her more enigmatic, because you can't tell where she's looking. He thinks Meg Masters is a modern, studded Mona Lisa.  
He wants to hold her, feel the slow beat of her breathing, and the steady rhythm of her heart. He wants to comfort her, make her feel safe from the dangerous world that wants to hurt her. He longs to kiss those scars, those bruises, those small marks on her porcelain skin. To tell her how much he loves her, really.  
She talks to him about her life most weeks, on a Sunday afternoon, weaving stories of cramped halls and secondhand cigarette smoke with her voice. He loves these talks because he feels close to her, and he is, technically. They often sit less than a metre apart, with a cup of tea (for castiel) and a black coffee (for meg), causing them to punctuate the conversations with sips of their respective drinks. Occasionally their knees knock together, making Meg giggle a little and smile, this is often followed by a shuffle as they readjust. She asks about his life and he shakes his head 'same as always' even when he wants to talk about the stars and her freckles and her shock of purple hair.  
There are so many things he wants to do with her. He wants to go on walks with her, perhaps with dogs from the local shelter. To spend nights pointing out constellations in the sky, and making their own. To find himself in her eyes, and to talk about how much they've seen. To share fears and hopes and memories and dreams with one another, as they lay side by side somewhere. To stand up to Jimmy, and know that she'll be there, to fall back on if he has to leave for a while. To go to her concerts and hear her voice spinning stories to rhythm. To love her and to be loved back, like the old romantic ballads he loves.  
Someday, he tells himself as he lays on his single bed in his library of a bedroom (he owns 2,386 books), when he gains enough confidence, he'll do something about it. He'll walk over to her house and knock on her door and when she answers, he'll ask to come in. Once he's inside, he'll kiss her hard, and feel her lip piercing on his bottom lip. He'll tell her about the stars and her freckles and her shock of purple hair. Castiel will paint a portrait of her for her with words, his own modern, studded Mona Lisa.


	2. Accountants & Secondhand Smoke & Renaissance Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg gets dreamy over Castiel and wonders if anything could happen if she could just help him out of his shell.

Meg Masters has always been intrigued by her neighbour, Castiel Novak.  
He's peculiar, no mistaking it. He works in the local library and stays behind on Thursdays to talk about books. His brother is just like a parent, even though they are identical twins and Castiel is older by seven and a half minutes (he told her that on one lazy June afternoon over their rickety old fence.).  
She thinks about him, as she lays in bed, smoke from Crowley's chain smoked cigarettes making patterns in the light from her small bedside lamp. Castiel is a work of art, she thinks, he is a work of art like one of those renaissance angels you see in galleries. He has flaws, but he is still all there. You can see where the paint has chipped and where conservationists have tried to paint back in the gaps, making it an altogether disjointed but connected piece.  
She wants the kind of regularity he has. She watches him sometimes, as he cycles to work, with his kneepads on. Sometimes, his coat, weathered and worn, flies up behind him and it looks like tan wings.  
It makes her smile to herself as she gets dressed, to think of him and what must be going on inside his head. He seems to be in a dilemma of not trusting himself to be an adult, and wishing that he could.  
She wants him to see her play, and to realise that the majority of her songs can be, in some small way, related back to him. Even better, she wants Castiel to hear her practice, when its dark and the sun has slid into oblivion and the sky is black, as if in mourning. She wants him to hear her sing the songs to her old beaten up acoustic guitar (because even though she is more of a loud music kind of girl, she loves a little bit of acoustic when she's alone.).  
She knows she shouldn't, but sometimes, only sometimes, she wishes that it would be Castiel who lay in the bed beside her, rather than Crowley. She just wants to talk about meaningful things, like they do when they have coffee and bash their knees together. She wants to pour every word in her head out onto him, like the tea he so enjoys.  
His appearance is that of a disheveled accountant at first glance. But look a little closer and he seems to open up, like one of the books he is so proud of. He has hair that he runs his hands through when he's nervous about something (its always messy and that makes Meg a little sad.). His black, leather shoes are scuffed from them hitting the asphalt as he cycles. His tie is never straight, as if he's never quite gotten the hand of tying it properly. His trenchcoat is worn and in desperate need of some TLC. But he wouldn't be Castiel without it.  
She asks him to come to gigs, and he always politely declines. And sometimes she just wants to scream at him that it's okay not to want to come and she won't be offended by it and she just wants him to be there, so he can see how much he means to her. But she doesn't because she doesn't want to scare her little renaissance angel away.  
It's when the nights are longer and the days greyer when she thinks about him most. She thinks about the way his lip curls into an almost smile when she wears her black contacts. She thinks about how, unlike his brother and his straight, harsh lines, Castiel is all smooth curves and gentle gradients. She thinks about how she wants to open up to him like she would a lover, but she can't because she isn't even his friend.  
She always leaves an extra glass out if she has people over, for him. When Sam and Dean Winchester come over, she always sets out another chair, just in case. It's gotten to the point where, among the people who frequent her home, Castiel is more a mythical creature than anything else, much like the angels he resembles. She never tells them he lives just next door, over the rickety fence.  
Unlike most people, who Meg believes would benefit from some piercings or hair dye or leather, Castiel wouldn't. Because it would cast him from the heavens and bring him crashing to earth, weighed down by the metal. The only thing she would ever make him would be a pair of wings. A pair of black angels wings, to go with her contacts. They could go adventuring then, the leather clad girl and the accountant angel.  
She thinks she loves him sometimes, loves all his little quirks and his mannerisms, loves all the perpetual papercuts on his worn yet graceful hands, but then she shakes herself out if that train of thought, knowing that only pain is waiting for her if she carries on. But she wants to carry on, she truly does, but she daren't because she can't handle having her heart broken. Not again.  
She longs to hold him, feel his warmth and hear his breathing. To protect him from anything that wants to hurt him and be protected in turn from bruised knuckles and secondhand smoke.  
Sometimes she feels like the only dark cloud in a blue sky, filled with unrealised dreams and disappointment. But then Castiel will write her a note at night and she feels like she could be a part of that blue sky again. She wishes Crowley wouldn't smoke out of that window.  
She wants to run her hands through his hair, and for him to smile at her through his eyes as well as his mouth. She wants to map his body with her hands, and listen to his heartbeat. She wants to sing him all the songs she's written for him, in her tired bedroom voice, and for him to smile and kiss her forehead.  
She despises Jimmy and all of his bible bashing friends. They all act nice, but in reality they are just hateful men. They make her feel ill with their preaching and blaming minorities. She feels them looking at her as the talk, their eyes boring through her house and through her leather shell and into her vulnerable body. They seem to be able to see through it all to her bruised, cigarette burned, scarred skin, that she hides from the cruel world.  
One day, she tells herself, as she lies half naked and half asleep atop her sheets on a summer night, one day she'll take him away. She'll knock on his door and take him on a adventure. And she'll wear her contacts and give him the wings that hang on her door, and she'll awaken his senses once and for all. And they'll transcend to their own small heaven together. He'll make her feel beautiful. Not like Crowley does, with words and shared beers of an evening, but with his actions. She knows Castiel'll care for her. He'll bring her peppermint tea when she gets ill, and hold her when she's cold and sad, during the winter months. He won't care about the scars, for he'll know how she got them, because she will tell him the story of every one. He'll know what Raphael did to her, all those years ago, and he'll tell her it makes no difference to him that that man broke her and hurt her. And he'll stroke her hair and call her his little one. And she'll smile a little and curl a little further into his old coat, until they become one. The glass will be used, the chair finally sat in, and Castiel will no longer be a myth. And they'll while the endless summers away talking about meaningful things, like renaisscance angels and clouds and bruised knuckles.


End file.
